


Seed & Sacrifice

by Notabluemaia



Series: Homecoming [6]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Quest, Pumpkins, Rituals, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-31
Updated: 2004-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notabluemaia/pseuds/Notabluemaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvest Festival brings honour to Sam, but darker rituals require sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seed & Sacrifice

“Good ladies and gentlehobbits, children, teens, and tweens, and all you fine Growers and Carvers– Oh!” Mr. Proudfoot peered through the haze of pipe-smoke floating over the audience. He’d seen many a hobbit come and go in his time, but few so often or so far as this one, except his uncle, whose curious departure still caused talk. Surprised, he burst out warmly, with more fond familiarity than was quite proper. “Well! It _is_ – our own Mr. Baggins, home again! Welcome, sir!”

There was a ripple of curly heads as hobbits turned this way and that, seeking the Master of Bag End in the crowded tent Yes, there he was – standing by the flap, apparently only just arrived. Easy enough to pick out, being taller than some, and there he was, calm as always as he quietly acknowledged the greetings. And, of course, right at his side, Samwise Gamgee, a hearty lad with some height himself.

“No, sir, we won’t make a fuss, other than sayin’ ‘tis good to see you, sir, and welcome home, and to Festival.”

And then Mr. Proudfoot took a deep breath, and collected his thoughts, as the crowd’s attention returned to the staging at the front of the tent.

“Ah, where were we? Yes.” Mr. Proudfoot cleared his throat, and stood straighter. “Now, it is my duty and pleasure, as last year’s proud Sacrifice, to welcome one and all, first to the Pumpkin Prizing, and then to the heart of our Festival.”

The audience ceased its restless shuffling and whispering, and silence fell as each hobbit gave thought to the importance of the ceremony to follow.

“The Wilding will begin at full dark, when every fit and able hobbit of age must submit to the Reaper’s choice.” Mr. Bracegirdle bowed his head, letting the silence linger. After a significant pause, during which not a sound was heard, other than an occasional cough, he raised his head and smiled, and his voice again boomed with good cheer. “But before that, something special that our children helped make ready – the Opening of the Harvest. Let me introduce my helper, Bosco Bracegirdle.”

Mr. Proudfoot set his hand on the lad’s shoulder and pulled him forward. Bosco, caught tugging nervously at his buttoned up collar, glanced toward his mother off stage; at her nod of reminder, he dipped an awkward bow to the crowd; some murmured appreciation, but more smiled understandingly, at his polite, if coerced, gesture. He took heart from the sight of his friends, grinned and stood a little straighter.

Mr. Proudfoot gestured to the enormous pumpkin set at the front of the staging, and the children, clustered close to the stage, leaned forward eagerly. Those old enough to remember last year’s Festival prepared themselves to launch wholeheartedly into their appointed parts; two of the older lads tussled, each sure he knew what was coming, striving for better position.

“Now, here’s a fine pumpkin! Every bit worthy of its First Prize – presented as grown, and adjudged the very finest of a fine class, to stand here for our whole harvest – wheat and barley, apple and pear, root, seed, and nuts, and the sweetest grapes ever grown on a vine. And this one’s a real beauty, isn’t it? Doesn’t need any carving or decoration more’n the way it grew. And it surely grew a lot! Hmm… what have we here?”

Mr. Proudfoot raised one brow, and smiled at the little ones, as he reached to the thick, curling stem. “Looks like there might be _something_ carved here… What’s this? A lid! And what could be inside? Seed for the future? A pumpkin custard pie sprinkled with nutmeg, or spiced muffins? Those are gifts every pumpkin might give, but maybe there’s something _else_ in this one. Bosco. Come here, my lad. It’s time for the Opening of our Harvest.”

At his cue, Bosco stood on tiptoe, and stretched to the top of the pumpkin. He wrapped his hand around its stem, and tugged sideways on the heavy lid; Mr. Proudfoot set a gnarled hand over the lad’s to offer better leverage, and together youth and age pulled it from its snug fit.

“Ah! Yes. Now here’s something not found in just any pumpkin! And just like this year’s entire harvest, there’s bounty enough for all to share, more’n enough for everyone to enjoy.”

He reached into the muslin-lined depths, and pulled forth a bag of midnight blue velvet, ornately stitched with stars of silver and tiny moons of gold, tied with a silken ribbon as orange as the pumpkin itself. He held up the pouch for all to see, and spoke ritual words of harvest from time out of mind.

“The bounty of this year’s Harvest, for the morrow’s Sacrifice.”

Then he laid the bag upon a wooden tray, carved finely with scenes and symbols of harvest. He withdraw simpler bags, their homely fabric potato-printed by the children, each tied with an orange-dyed string, and placed them on wicker trays for the children to distribute to everybody.

“And these to share – harvest plenty for all!”

The children scattered, delivering treats throughout the crowd, and their elders took a moment to enjoy a pipe, and some conversation. In the gathering darkness at the back of the tent, Frodo turned to Sam. “I was too old to help with the Opening by the time I moved here, but I remember _you_ doing so.” Frodo leaned closer, so that his lowered voice would not be overheard. “Such a loveable lad, and generous, too. You were always giving me extra sweets, even then. So, dear heart, what is the treat, this year?”

“The best is for later, Mr. Frodo, sir, and ‘generous’ won’t be the half of it!” Sam’s soft voice, low tone, and raised brow promised bounty rather more fulfilling than sweets. “But I heard that for now, there’s toffee with hazelnut, and truffles – cherry, I hope. Dried currants, and roasted chestnuts, too. Little beeswax tapers – like they’ll use for the Lighting. And of course, seeds retrieved from the First Prize. “And the little bags - I mind carving out the shapes to print those little moons and stars, when I were a lad. It’s a wonder they ever come out so well, the mess we’d get in with the blackberry juice!” A lantern was kindled on the staging, and his eyes sparked suddenly as he added, quietly, “But I would give you the moon and all the stars, and the whole of Middle-earth if I could!”

“I know. And I would share them with you. Perhaps we might claim them for a while after the night’s excitements?” This said quickly, as a tiny lass, whom Frodo didn’t recognise, approached, holding forth a woven tray piled high with the harvest treats.

“Sir? Mr. Baggins, sir? Please, sir, won’t you share in the Harvest?” She peered up at him shyly from beneath curls and kerchief, and bobbed a curtsey.

Frodo returned a graceful bow, and spoke the accustomed response gently, so as not to intimidate. “Thank you. I would be most pleased to share the Harvest.” He took the closest bag, a coarse fabric square, its corners drawn together over lumpy, fragrant contents.

“You’re welcome, sir.” She managed to meet Frodo’s eyes; he smiled kindly, trying to seem less intimidating than her timidity implied that he must appear.

As she moved on, Frodo untied the bow, revealing the plenty Sam had described, searching… ah, yes! A tissue-wrapped truffle; scent proved its cherry cream centre. Messy to bite into, but delicious, and Sam would love it.

“And you, sir?” She proffered the basket to Sam, who squatted low beside her to accept; this was a lass he knew, and he knew as well that her family had endured terrible loss and suffering this past season.

“Miss Violet, thank you. And please thank your mother, as well. Seems I heard she made toffee for the treats?”

“Yes, Mr. Gamgee, she did. I surely will. And thank _you_ , sir.” The child returned his smile easily; Mr. Gamgee wasn’t nearly as fearsome as his Master.

Sam patted her shoulder, straightened, and turned back to Frodo, but before he could speak, Frodo held forth his hand, offering the fragrant truffle. “For you.” Their eyes met, and Sam picked it up, his fingertip trailing a covert caress to Frodo’s palm.

“Thank you, sir. My favourite, as well you know.” He smiled and put the treat in his mouth whole, savouring the gift, letting its flavour melt slowly upon his tongue, wishing that he might share the sweetness in a sweeter kiss. And then he leaned to Frodo, speaking softly. “That was Lily, the Chubbs’ youngest. And the toffee would be from her mother, who well deserves its fame. Such a generous thing to do, especially this year. They’ve surely had more’n their share of sadness–”

At Frodo’s frown, Sam recalled belatedly that he couldn’t have heard yet, and that he had visited the grandparents’ farm with some regularity, with Bilbo; less often, perhaps, since he left, but with no less fondness on either side. This news would cause a personal grief. He chastised himself for speaking so carelessly; he’d brought up sad tidings, here when he’d hoped the evening would distract Frodo a little longer from the difficulties of his recent journey. But no denying the insistent question in Frodo’s eyes now. Keep it brief – time enough for details later – but he had to be told.

“There was a terrible accident, not long after you left. A runaway cart tipped over, and old Farmer Chubb, and his eldest grandson… Oh, sir. I am so sorry. I remember how fond he was of you, and you…” Sam’s voice trailed off; he was distressed to bring this hurtful news, but there was nothing he could say that might ease it.

“Yes.” Frodo frowned, and looked away, seeking the parents in the crowd. It was too dark, now, to distinguish faces. He would need to speak to them later, to visit, to try to tell them of his sadness, to let grief flow through him, around him again, as he had just left it behind on his journey, as he had done before. So much sadness in the world, and yet, despite it, so much happiness here, on this night. So many hobbits, each of whom had troubles of their own, in this season or another, yet were rejoicing together in the bounty of the land.

“I needed to know, Sam. Thank you.” Sam’s troubled expression didn’t relax until Frodo added, “Do not worry for me, Sam. And look, the Lighting is about to begin, and your creation will be honoured soon.”

Frodo smiled, and the darkness of the tent lifted – whether lit by his smile, or the start of the Lighting, Sam did not know, but he could see the whiteness of his teeth, and the love shining brightly in his eyes. Ah, yes. This night _was_ young…

But the ceremony was being announced on the staging by ritual words intoned as every year.

 

“…and so, as our youngest ones shared the bounty, so now do they bring this Harvest to Light as we celebrate the Spirit that brings its Bounty to Life.”

Bosco held up a small lantern from which fragrant smoke drifted; Mr. Proudfoot lit a twist of straw and set it to the wick of a squat candle. Its sides were carved with vines, and it was surrounded by a wreath twined with bittersweet, to mourn the season’s passing, and with holly, its berries red as life’s blood, to promise the next, its leaves evergreen to affirm that much remained unchanged.

He beckoned, and the children surged forward, jostling as they took turns to set their beeswax tapers to the flame. They scattered, excited and laughing, to lift the pumpkins’ lids and light the candles within. Within minutes, dozens of carved pumpkins were set aglow, to laugh and leer and scowl from tiers and staging. The crowd gasped with delight. Excited voices buzzed, as the merits of each were discussed over refills of cider, hard and fresh, and renewed pipes. That odd pumpkin, carved in flowing lines like some kind of writing, right next to that big, jolly one – well, that could only be Mr. Baggins’ – his entry earned an unofficial prize for ‘Most Baffling’ every year, though it had to be said, it _was_ strangely beautiful. For those who liked that sort of thing.

And then, Mr. Proudfoot called the eager crowd to attention. It was time to award the official Prizes for Pumpkin Carving, for Most Frightening, Fetching, and Funny – this often for the addition of mushroom ears, paint, and a carrot nose – Smallest, Biggest, and finally, the Best. To begin with, there was generous applause for each of the prize-winners, but as the effects of the ale and cider – and a great deal of honeyed mead – took a deeper hold, each new name was cheered until the very tent sides seemed to vibrate in sympathy. Good humour prevailed as each Prize winner was called to the staging to receive an award – a deep blue mask, stitched with an orange moon, to wear in honour to the next night’s Festival Dance. As Frodo had predicted, Sam _had_ won, and when his name was called, Frodo turned to him, and shook his hand, the first to congratulate him – and his clear happiness that Sam should be honoured was reward better than any prize.

Sam made his way through the crowd amid enthusiastic applause to accept the ‘Best’ – a popular choice, as his pumpkin was indeed the jolliest and most attractive, and well nigh the largest. And Sam himself was held in high regard, for his sweet temper and plain good sense, for his willingness to help those in need, and for his loyalty to friends, family – and especially to his Master. Several hobbit lasses leaned together, murmuring; he was a handsome fellow as well, strapping and strong; and a hard worker, too, who took such good care of Bag End, as the Gamgees had always done, whether for Mr. Frodo, or Mr. Bilbo before him. Though it was suspected that young Samwise might provide a little _closer_ tending than had his Gaffer…

And then, the Prizing was over, and Mr. Proudfoot was thanking the participants and growers, the audience, Bosco, and anyone else who’d done anything at all towards Festival. Somehow, it just didn’t seem right to Sam to call attention to himself by jumping off the staging and working his way down the crowded central aisle. He caught Frodo’s eyes, and they exchanged a rueful smile at his plight, though Frodo’s seemed appreciative rather than sympathetic as his gaze lingered. Sam grinned, but had to look away so that he could at least appear attentive to the proceedings.

Finally, the thanks were completed, the applause died away, and the crowd stilled, waiting with shivery anticipation for the night’s dark ending.

“Thank you for joining us this evening. We hope we’ll see all of you tomorrow at sundown, when Festival concludes with Sacrifice and Feast – and our annual Dance.” Mr. Proudfoot hesitated, making certain that he remembered the proper order of the words that would announce the dark rite that followed. He took a deep breath, then spoke slowly and carefully, making sure that he said all that was required by longstanding tradition.

“The harvest moon rises over darkness now, and _this_ night is not yet over. Every Harvest is brought forth through the willing sacrifice of all, and nothing is reaped without sacrifice. Tonight the Reaper walks from Water through Woods, seeking the one who will serve as Sacrifice to bear the burdens of this Harvest. Whom will he choose? This night will tell.”

A sigh passed through the crowd as the solemnity of the coming ritual was absorbed, and the mood changed from festive to sober anticipation, as Mr. Proudfoot told again what all but the youngest had heard many times before.

“Three parched grains of wheat, reaped the Harvest past, lie, as you left them, before the dying embers of your hearth-fires. Tonight, each male head of a household shall bring forth that dead seed, and here exchange it for three living grains, in promise of next year’s bounty. And from those hobbits, and all other able adult males, who themselves must take this season’s journey, one will be taken as Sacrifice, for Death is ever part of Life.”

Silence, then a deep sigh, followed by a rustle of activity as those exempted by tradition excused themselves: goodwives and children, fathers and mothers with babes, the elderly or infirm. The responsibility was deadly serious, but it was assumed that each knew his mind, heart, or circumstances best. Quickly, quietly, those who needed to do so, slipped out, many to be escorted home by waiting tweens bearing lanterns. The night ahead was not for the faint of heart or those no longer agile. But for many of the tweens, the Wilding was frightening fun, for they could watch the season’s mystery unfold before their Coming of Age would submit them to the Reaper’s choice. And there were still mead and cider, and sweet kisses to be found in the Woods: thrills of a different sort entirely, but a promise of fecundity just the same.

But even after the departures, the tent remained crowded as those staying for the Reaping waited – time must be allowed for those who had left to return home safely, before the Wilding could begin. Time enough for to discuss the Prizing, refill their mugs, and enjoy a pipe, before the solemnity began in earnest. Sam found himself stuck up on the staging, alone; earlier winners had managed to slip away unobtrusively between awards. The narrow aisles between chairs were packed with slow-moving hobbits, and he could not see a way to squeeze past. Soon, the crowd, compelled by equal parts obligation and fear, would clear, as most hurried outside to watch as the Reaper set forth. But not soon enough for Sam.

He shifted from foot to foot, trying not to fidget, trying to spot Frodo. He was not where Sam had left him at the back of the tent. Of course. He would have had to move, to step aside to allow those wishing to exit to do so. From here on the raised staging he could see across the crowd, but the candlelight from the carved pumpkins flickered, making shadows dance in the tent, and the fragrant smoke, drifting overhead from all those pipes, hid details. He could only tell movement, and dark figures, but he’d know the shape of Frodo anywhere, if he could only catch a glimpse. And he’d surely like to glimpse him, to catch his eye, to make sure they found each other before the Wilding started.

The Wilding could _not_ be pleasant for Frodo, not this year, not after his journey; not the day after he’d returned; been up – well, yes, they _both_ had – almost all night, and then slept only a bit this afternoon. Not to mention that Frodo didn’t care much for raucous crowds on his most rested and relaxed day. But he’d never leave before the Reaping, even though he had more’n enough real cause to be excused this year. No hobbit took his responsibilities any more seriously than did Frodo Baggins, and that journey was proof, if any was needed. He’d insist on doing his part for Harvest, retrieving the seeds he’d left to dry, submitting himself to the Reaper’s Choice –

Where _was_ he? Sam peered through the curls of smoke, trying to make out who stood where.

 

He’d find him – like as not, Frodo had stepped out of the close tent and would be waiting right outside – and then he’d stick right by his Master as he fetched the seeds from Bag End; the Reaper seemed to take lone hobbits more often than those in groups, though his choice was free and he could take any one, any place, any time - Water to Woods, Wilding till dawn—

Then Sam saw an opening, and jumped down from the staging. He tried to make his way quickly through the clusters of excited and exiting hobbits, but was slowed by hearty claps to his back, and congratulations upon his fine pumpkin and prize. Finally, he squeezed through the last throng, out into the crisp night air – oh, beautiful!

The moon was rising huge and orange behind the tracery of trees surrounding the Festival field. Lanterns, carried by hobbits slow to make their departures, bobbed and glowed, receding into the distance towards the ritually darkened smials.

Oh, it was great and frightful fun for the tweens, on a beautiful night like this, if you were in the right spirit – and Sam could remember many a Wilding shiver in his youth – but the underlying import was grave, and the responsibility of Sacrifice was heavy. Sam shuddered; he’d not had to serve yet, and didn’t relish the possibility. But the thought of Frodo bearing that burden _this_ year was even worse.

 

Now where was he?

Sam turned in a circle, searching the crowd of excited tweens and able adults gathering for the Reaper’s appearance; searching the Festival grounds: chairs set up before the display tents, their flaps closed against the night, displays for the morrow’s final ceremonies tucked inside, safe from the Wilding; trestle tables waiting to be laden for feast; logs stacked high in the fire pit; the Reaper’s small tent - and in the very centre of the Field, the heavily carved chair, for Sacrifice.

No sign of curls darker than most, a figure straight and slim—

“Tom – hello, Tom! Did you see where Mr. Frodo went?” No, he had not, nor had anyone else Sam asked. That cloak of reserve Frodo carried about him, and his quiet grace, seemed to have let him slip through the crowd as unobtrusively as if he were invisible.

There, there coming from the Prizing tent, was his Gaffer, one of the elders maintaining some order to the Wilding, in addition to bringing the seed from the Gamgee smial; the time would come when he’d pass the Reaping obligation to Sam, but he was loathe to turn over the tradition, insisting, in truth, that hard-earned wisdom contributed to a good harvest as much as a strong young back.

Sam just nodded, and smiled; his Gaffer had been in the tent even longer than had Sam, and wasn’t likely to know any more than the rest about where Frodo had gone. But to his surprise, his Gaffer called, and caught up with him.

“Son? Samwise, wait up! You did a grand job on that pumpkin, thought that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”

“Thanks, Dad. But I’ve lost Mr. Frodo. I don’t mean to be short with you, but –”

“Just listen. You need to find him, take him home, seeds or no. That Sandyman fellow took the spare Reaper robes, the old ones, and we haven’t found him yet, and you know he don’t have a lick of sense, even stone cold sober, which he weren’t, by a long chalk. No telling what trouble he’ll cause, and it may be the whole Sacrifice will be ruint.” That was trouble for the Festival, for the whole village, if next year’s crops weren’t safe-guarded, but there was personal trouble in this, too, and he didn’t need to spell it out to Sam. They’d both seen what they’d seen, and heard more than enough, and the Master needed to be found, and soon.

“Well, Ted’s a fool, and a mean one, to boot.” Sam frowned. Yes, a mean one, who’d made a few too many lewd comments, especially about a certain gentlehobbit, and had even been rumoured to have _done_ things, to have _taken_ what hadn’t been offered freely, and more’n a robe… Sam exchanged a look with his Gaffer – yes, he knew exactly what his dad _wasn’t_ saying.

“It was bad enough without that, Dad, and I don’t see him anywhere.” Sam’s voice was rough with frustrated concern.

“Son, we both know Mr. Frodo has good sense.”

Of course he had – but those comments hadn’t been made in his hearing, and _that_ sort of nastiness was far different than the tenant or family disputes he handled so deftly, and his ‘good sense’ wasn’t much protection against plain old brawn, and it didn’t give Sam the slightest relief.

“Sam, he’s likely right here, and you’ve just missed him. Or returned to Bag End for something, and back before the Wilding even starts.” But Hamfast’s tone was doubtful, and his expression worried; there was real danger here, on a night already filled with things mysterious beyond the understanding of most hobbits.

“I hope, Dad, I hope…” Sam gave his father’s arm a squeeze. “You take care, and I’ll see you later.”

And now his fears increased tenfold, for if ever there was a hobbit for no good, it was that one, and while he was usually too much the coward to go after his elders and betters any way other than ill-tempered mouthing, he had a cruel streak, especially when he’d been drinking, and the ale had flowed fast tonight. He just might find, hiding inside those Reaper robes, false courage enough to take on someone so far beyond his reach or understanding that he wouldn’t dare approach him in his own skin. But with drink in him, and a lust on him, and a disguise over him… he just _might_.

Sam pressed his fist to his mouth, and took a deep breath. His Frodo was clever, and quick, and wiry strong. Certainly able to take good care of himself; Sam had only to think of what he’d done and where he’d been these last weeks. But he was a slip of a thing next to Ted’s oafish brawn, and he had come home worn down. Distracted. And now, he was tired, and likely still tender in places from their loving, as well, and that was Sam’s fault, too, and he should’ve thought about all this and leaped off that staging and gone right to him – but Mr. Proudfoot had moved things along faster than usual, and the crowds were bigger than usual –

And now Ted was out there.

He had to find Frodo. Surely he’d find him before—

But it was already too late.

One ringing chime. Its echo filled the Festival grounds – and the Wilding began. Tweens rushed past the sombre adults to the Reaper’s ceremonial tent – and fell back, and fell silent.

And a hush and a chill fell over all, as the Reaper emerged from darkness.

If ever there were a cue to cower or to flee, this was it – and a few of those just barely in their tweens _did_ edge away, not quite able to leave, but not wanting to stand too close to this mystery, and even some adults trembled. But none fled, for the outcome of the next Harvest depended upon this night, and their very survival, and that of those they loved, depended upon the Harvest – and for that, they would willingly sacrifice much.

The Reaper was cloaked in grey that fluttered and flowed like mist about him as he strode through the crowd, carrying the ceremonial scythe; vines twined with ribbon, mistletoe, and nightshade trailed from the join of its carved staff and polished wooden blade. He seemed bigger than any hobbit had a right to be; rumour hinted that something _other_ filled those dark robes on this night, but those who might know would never say.

Hobbits fell aside respectfully, clearing a wide path before the Reaper; the adults bowed their heads or nodded sober greetings, accepting their responsibility to be available for his choice. But many tweens, intent upon finding all the shivers they could before they, too, must submit themselves to ritual, would follow him to the very edge of the Festival Field, desperately curious. They would not follow him further, though, for the Reaping itself was too fearsome - a hallowed matter, too private and too deeply personal, between the Reaper and his Sacrifice; its mysteries were never revealed by any companions who might also be there.

Sam bowed his head as the Reaper glided past, close enough that he felt the breeze stirred in his wake. The veiled figure seemed to flow away into the dark, faster than any tween could follow, even if they dared, and every hobbit left on the field breathed the easier for his going. Sam stood still, letting the shiver fade, as the worry for Frodo grew – then looked up, searching the milling crowd once more.

Householder adults all around the Festival grounds were extinguishing their lanterns, now. There would be no more flames in lantern or hearth this night; only those lit in the carved pumpkins and the ceremonial candle would continue to burn.

Whoops and shrieks – a group of giddy tweens, hooded in dark cloaks, their faces hidden by animal masks, by paint, and by shadows, rushed past, searching for their sport, to take fellow tweens, and occasionally a mistaken young adult, captive, holding them in a pen until the Reaper found his Sacrifice.

Quiet voices, low tones, words indistinguishable, the hobbits let their eyes adjust to the colourless moonlight before making their ways home to retrieve the seed, making themselves available to the Reaper’s Choice. Few would go alone, unless it was required by necessity or circumstance, for that seemed to be an invitation to the Reaper, and no one sought the burden of Sacrifice.

In all the darkened activity of the rapidly dispersing crowd, he didn’t see Frodo anywhere. No Master – nor Ted, neither.

Think. Frodo _had_ to be here somewhere…

Unless _something_ had come up. Something that might have taken him away already, into the gloom. Something that would not hinder his ability to serve. What in the world…?

The only thing that might’ve done that would be… _that_ was it. Someone leaving early, needing an escort. Someone maybe too elderly, too unsteady to manage a lantern and keep balance, too. Someone whom Mr. Frodo knew, and cared about, who might even have asked him for help, and who didn’t live so far away but what he’d think he could be right back, before Sam would miss him, before the Reaper would set forth, seeking—

Of course. The Widow Chubb. If Frodo had seen her, knowing about her loss, he’d have been sure to go to her, and would have done anything he could to help her, and her grieving family – and weren’t there at least three little ones, younger than the lad they’d lost, and the goodwife large with the next? Frodo would almost certainly have offered his arm and his kindness. Would he carry one of the bairns? No – the Widow would wish to be home on this night, the first when the head of her household no longer carried the seed. He’d save the young parents the trip to the Widow’s farm – and he’d ask her, in that gentle way, to tell him, and he’d listen, like he did so well, and take the burden of what had to be one of the very saddest of this harvest’s tales to himself, just as much as ever any Sacrifice would on the morrow. _Oh, Frodo…_

But the Chubb farm was not so far but that, if they’d taken the old shortcut through the Woods, Frodo could be well on his way back, and even close by now.

Alone. By himself on that shortcut; well-used though it was during the day, there weren’t many smials on the other side, mostly fields and wide-scattered farms.

Alone, unless…

Sam set off towards the Woods at a trot, despite the chance he might attract one of the groups of tweens. They were good lads – and some bold lasses –and would never seriously interfere with the adults, and _might_ listen to reason and respect his desire to be excused from their playful gaming. But the Reaper would not, and it was no game he waged. And Sam wasn’t sure which worried him more, that the Reaper would find Frodo, or that Ted would. One a heavy burden, but the other – well, really no choice which was the greater worry. Frodo knew all about responsibility, but next to nothing about a hobbit as viciously crude as Ted. And Sam didn’t want him to find out, and he didn’t want to know one bit more himself, for that matter.

There, ahead of him, the opening that marked the winding path. The harvest moon shone brightly through the leaf cover, silvering the green and bronze, outlining bare limbs reaching toward the stars. Moonlight fell clear upon the path between the trees, but beneath their high canopy, the lingering leaves cast dappled shadows that faded ominously to black near the trunks. Sam peered down the trail: no sign of Frodo, Reaper, or Ted; too much contrasting light and dark, too many side spurs, twists and turns. It would be difficult to keep his bearings without the moon’s clear guide. He shuddered, pulled his coat closer about himself, and stepped into the Woods.

Fallen leaves piled and slipped, smooth and cold underfoot; supple still, no dried crunch, and instead a slithering sound as they were brushed aside. He wove between the trees, through shadow, moonlight, and shadow again – and from behind him, a huge pale shape floated overhead, close and silent. He gasped, ducked, flung up his arm to ward and protect. It swooped along the moonlit path – a shrill squeak as some small creature was seized in talons – then beat upwards, bearing off its prize, the whoosh of air cooling Sam’s abruptly sweaty brow. Predatory success was celebrated with a hoot in the trees behind, an answering _‘whooo’_ ahead.

He took a breath. Only what was natural for woods at night. Nothing unnatural, nothing to fear. Not this…

But it _was_ strange – the leaves, the owls, an occasional scurrying in the groundcover to his side, but no other sound. No wind rustling, no echo from greetings or scares shouted back and forth in the field behind him, or the Woods around. Just moonlight, and silence, and the tall, tall trees.

Where were the gatherings and the groups, the adventuresome tweens’ high spirits? This deserted path should be a favourite for tweens seeking romance or mystery, playing at adulthood. But even they had not come into _this_ Wood, not this night.

Sam stopped, and listened. Silence – but wait. Those _might_ be leaf rustlings ahead, some distance still. Frodo? It could as well be the Reaper. Or Ted? Loud mouthed drunken lout that he was, he’d more likely stomp and crash.

More likely Frodo, then, his footfalls soft – or the silent Reaper, and maybe _both_ – but that would mean –

No. Not this year, not after such a hard journey and then returning to learn of death here. Not more sadness, and the burden of ceremonial duty on the morrow. Frodo simply did not _need_ to be Sacrifice, not this year. Sam cursed himself for letting this happen, for not being at his side if it must.

 _Was_ that a rustling on the trail ahead?

“Mr. Frodo?” His voice sounded too loud – but if it were Frodo, he’d call back an answer, and hurry to meet Sam. And if it were not, better that the Reaper turn and take Sam, than to encounter Frodo alone up ahead.

Unless it _was_ Ted – and now he’d know that Frodo was likely a little further along the path, and alone. Oh, blast it!

Sam took off down the path, as fast as he could; the shadows beneath the trees were too dark, and the leaves too slippery, to allow safe running. Best not call again. Rather, listen, and hurry. If Frodo were returning, he’d already be walking as fast as was safe. And if anyone _else_ were ahead, he didn’t need any more notice about a lone traveller coming his way.

He tried to remember the path, to place where he was along it. Wasn’t there a glade close? An eerie place, even in daylight– lower than the rest of the path, and always damp, carpeted heavily by moss that crept over tumbled rocks.

There was danger there, too, although he’d not thought of it for years. The hill dropped sharply, and the woods encroached to the very edge of a deep cavity in the ground, its rocky sides steep, and slick with constant moisture, moss, and algae. A small stream rippled over rocks tumbled at the bottom, and ran out at the bottom of the hill – the hole was likely the sunken remains of an old cave, its roof long since collapsed. A fascination to audacious youngsters, the subject of repeated parental prohibitions – and the cause of broken bones, and even a rare drowning, when some hapless soul had lingered too long as storm waters rose.

Would Frodo even know about it? He’d been a tween when he moved here; he might not have heard the oft-repeated cautions to the local children. And Mr. Bilbo had tended to say a thing once only, for Frodo’s agile mind seldom needed repetition. But it had been years since there’d been an accident to remind him. Would he remember? These woods were too tame, and too close, to appeal to his wanderlust, and he’d not have had much reason to take the shortcut.

But these imagined worries were really just distraction, keeping Sam from darker ones, for surely Frodo wouldn’t stray from the path. He’d be as eager to return to Sam, as Sam was to find him; and he had far different explorations upon his mind this night.

Voices? Faintly, ahead. He hurried, listening. Yes. Those _were_ voices. And they were raised, but they didn’t sound happy, or celebratory – and instead, one sounded sharp, belligerent, and the other – oh, mercy, _that_ clear voice he _knew_.

Sam ran, despite the risk. Nightbirds whirred in protest, small creatures rustled, scurried, and off to his side, something crashed heavily through the brush – a deer, startled into flight.

Here, the glade, silent now, and where, oh where?

Not on the path that skirted it, and Sam stepped away from it, listening, looking down the hill –

Oh! There – Frodo, at the far edge of the glade – and he couldn’t be far now from that steeper edge – his face and white shirt glowing pale in the moonlight, his coat wadded in his hand, held out before him; his other hand raised, palm toward the dark figure approaching him, backing him further, closer to that drop.

“Frodo!”

“It is all right, Sam. Stay back.” Frodo’s voice carried easily across the rocky open space; he spared a concerned glance to Sam, and his look was one of authority – but the order from his beloved master was one that Sam could not obey.

For the dark cloaked figure before him wielded a scythe, and its glint in the moonlight proved it the real thing, and not the ceremonial implement of the Reaper. A flash of steel and the ring of blade upon stone – moss flew into the air, dangling from the curve of the blade. The motion was inelegant, uncontrolled, but no less perilous, and far too close to Frodo. And the voice raised against him threatened harm beyond the blade; even if Frodo didn’t yet realise _who_ it was, he must know now that this was far worse than a drunken prank –

“I am the Reaper – I’ll take what I _want_! Something ripe and fine – ain’t that what harvest’s all about? Reap _me_ a prime something… or some _one_!” The words were slurred – disguised by ale or intent – and leering, and the tone insolent. Ignoring Sam, he advanced on Frodo, striking sparks from the rock with hard taps of the blade.

“Reaper’s choice. Someone to _serve_. You’d _serve_ me just fine – and maybe your _servant_ , too!”

Two steps – Ted lurched forward, swinging the scythe; Frodo backed further downhill, his face knotted in concentration.

“I’ll take _you_ , first –” Another flash of the blade, and the figure reeled, unsteady on the slippery rocks, and the more dangerous because of it. “Or maybe you’d like to take _me_ , Mister Frodo Baggins. Pretty little thing like you, all manners’n soft looks – maybe that’s how you _want_ it. One way or another, I’ll _have_ you – or else this blade will!”

“No. You will _not_. Put down the scythe; we can talk.” Frodo’s tone was still calm, but Sam heard tension mounting in his voice. He had to be horrified, sickened by this travesty of service and hallowed Sacrifice. He’d have realised his plight right away – but with these words it had just become dreadfully worse than a drunkard’s brawl. Sam’s chest clenched with fear, for Ted was a sight heftier than Frodo, or Sam for that matter, and with that wicked blade, he stood a better than even chance against both of them together, let alone Frodo by himself, and he would need only one lucky swipe to be rid of Sam, for there wasn’t any question which of them was wanted, and which was wanted out of the way – and then he _would_ do just what he threatened, and that didn’t bear thinking on – _Frodo!_

Frodo took his eyes from Ted for only a second, looking past him to Sam – and despite the pale light, Sam saw his love, and fear, and caution, and understood that it had somehow come to this: an unforeseen and deadly threat, its outcome uncertain, at best.

Frodo glanced over his shoulder at the rough hillside falling away behind him, feeling backwards with one foot, telling Sam his plan. Yes, flight made sense; there was no question but that he or Sam could outrun the bulkier figure. But the rocks were jagged and uneven, slippery with moss and slick green slime; Frodo risked a fall before ever he was safe beyond the reach of that long-handled scythe –

But there _were_ two of them, now –

“Sandyman! Here! You let Mr. Frodo be! You don’t want to take on both of us!” Except it seemed that he _did_ – that was exactly the evil he wanted, and Frodo first.

Sam moved closer, as quickly as he could pick his way over the rocks. Not close enough yet, but he _had_ distracted Ted’s attention – he swung toward Sam, his hood falling back to reveal the leering glare of drunken lust.

Recognising opportunity, Frodo backed up, was turning, was almost out of reach – a stone slipped underfoot, rattled, and with a roar, Ted whirled back to him, scythe raised, flashing, spinning it around with the full force of his body–

“NO!”

Frodo went down, and even as Sam leaped to tackle Ted, he heard the dull crack of something hitting the rocks.

A flurry, rolling, Ted flailing – Sam frenzied, purposeful, terrified. He seized the scythe’s handle, ripped it from Ted’s grasp to heave it away, far as he could, down the hillside; heard it clattering into the pit, and the distant splash as it hit the water at the bottom. Sam landed a final hard jab to Ted’s jaw, and flung him aside before he should do worse to him–

He scrambled desperately toward Frodo, only barely aware that Ted was fleeing, clambering over the rocks towards the path; he noted, as from a nightmare, the flapping overhead as a lone bat rose squeaking, roused from the depths by the tumbling blade.

Frodo lay still, sprawled awkwardly on his side, blood bright on his white shirtsleeve, dark on the rock beneath his head. Sam threw himself to his knees beside his body, heard his own shrill cry.

No, no, not his Frodo! Touch him – let strength flow to him—

His arm – bloody, but, miraculously, only nicked by the blade as he fell, protected by the coat clutched, and slashed, in his hand. Sam dared not think _how_ close, how bad that might have been, but it could wait. His head, his dear head! Sam bit back his anguish. Carefully, oh so carefully, he slid his hands along sturdy shoulders, the column of his neck – there did not seem to be any distortion or twisting, and he felt – oh, he felt like _himself_ beneath Sam’s knowing touch. Only then did he slip his fingers through Frodo’s curls, between rock and bone, around the curve of his skull, through slickness, to find the swelling lump. Oh, thank the stars, there was no depression there, and the gash was small, and even now he was beginning to stir—

He groaned, and opened his eyes, dark, dilated, and unfocused. His hand raised, and Sam took it and held it tightly, smearing them both with Frodo’s blood.

“Sam…”

Sam laid his other hand to Frodo’s brow, brushing back sweat damp strands, and spoke gently. “It’s over, love, he’s fled, and can’t hurt you. Oh, dear one, no more Wilding for you; it’s time to go home.”

Frodo frowned, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to focus, but he did not seem to see Sam; instead, his gaze was directed over Sam’s shoulder. And in the bright moonlight falling into their greyed depths, Sam caught a sudden gleam as his eyes widened; he stiffened, and drew a sharp breath, and shrank back as a chill shadow fell across them both.

Slowly Sam turned; there had been no sound, no warning, but only one thing this night could compel that look from Frodo. Words of offering spilled from him even before he saw the hooded shape blocking the clear moonlight, and a plea poured straight from his heart.

“Take me, oh, please take me. Not Frodo, not this year, he’s hurt, and done more’n his share already! Please, no! Choose me!”

Silence – and a sudden breeze lifted the grey cloak, revealing only a darker shade, beneath; it rustled through the trees all around, leaving a sigh in their leaves. The ceremonial scythe stood upright, ready at his side.

And the Reaper’s unspoken question hung in the air.

Sam moaned, and lifted Frodo in his arms, held him close, tried to turn his face to his breast.

But Frodo squeezed his hand, his grip stronger now, and he struggled free from Sam’s protective embrace to sit up. He could not yet stand, but he braced one hand upon Sam’s shoulder, and pushed himself to his knees. He faced the darkness before him, his back straight, chin firm and mouth set, resigned to this, as he had never been to the false Reaper’s advance.

And though his voice was low, his words rang clear.

“I am ready to serve.”

Silence once more, as the hobbits waited. Even the whisper of leaves seemed to still around them, and every sound of bird or beast paused to an aching quiet.  
  
Frodo bowed his head, and his hand trembled upon Sam’s shoulder, but he did not flinch as the symbolic blade was raised high to the side –  
  


  
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_Sacrifice_  


Silence – complete now, as the carved sickle descended, sweeping its arc a breath above Frodo’s head. Frodo gasped, his fingers tightening on Sam, and he swayed; but Sam found strength to lay a steadying hand to his back.

The cowled figure bent low, grasped Frodo’s chin gently, to lift his face to moonlight that fell cold upon it. The curls were brushed aside from his brow, and a thumbprint of oily pumpkin ash pressed black upon fair skin. A deep, unfamiliar voice chanted ancient words of ritual – but unexpected ones as well.

“ _Sacrifice_ are you, Frodo Baggins, and so ever shall you be. But not this year, for it is not yet your time to serve. Rejoice in the Life of Festival, and partake not of the season’s Death. May the tears of the beloved wash away this sign, as together the seed of Life is sown.”

And then Frodo did collapse, back into Sam’s arms, trembling from reprieve, from injury, from the aftershock of confrontation with false and real Reapers. Sam sobbed, and pulled him close, pressing his lips to his hair, his brow; they clung together, sharing a tender kiss, of relief, of love, of longing, and Sam’s tears fell softly to mingle with Frodo’s own. They neither saw nor heard the cloaked figure depart, but when at last their kiss was ended, there was shadow no longer, and moonlight fell bright upon them.

“Sam… you offered to serve, in my stead.” Frodo took a deep breath, reached to stroke Sam’s cheek.

“Yes, dear one.” Sam cupped Frodo’s face in his palm. “Oh, Frodo-love, you’re brave enough, and no mistake, but you’ve served plenty this year.” And _that_ was what service meant – not the wickedness that had been threatened – but the word was reminder of a too-close encounter with evil beyond their ken. Fear rose again, and Sam shrank from remembering the danger – and the killing rage, like nothing he’d known, that might have done _anything_ to protect…

“You’re hurt. Here, love—” Sam tried to calm himself by tending to what he could. “Let me see your arm.” He unbuttoned the cuff, and gently pushed up the sleeve. The bleeding had slowed, but still seeped; he shook his folded handkerchief open and tied it securely over the wound. He glanced up – Frodo was looking intently at him, and in his face he saw the same confusion that he felt, and vulnerability, and a look he knew well – raw need for his Sam.

“Sam. My arm can wait. But _I_ cannot. Please…” He wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders, and pressed soft lips to offer a whisper between Sam’s. “I need _you_ , your goodness set against… Oh, Sam, I was so afraid – that anyone would _force_ , could _want_ to…”

“I – Frodo, I could barely stand the thought of it!” Sam pulled Frodo closer, and kissed him fiercely, as desire quickened their breath. He pulled back in concern. “And I am yours – but let me take you home, to bed.”

“Shh, love. Here, now. Life, as the Reaper said, to set against the season’s Death; your seed, to me, and mine to you, given freely, exchanged beneath the fair moon.”

Frodo’s hands were as insistent as his words; the one knowing upon what had risen hard when first they kissed, as the other unfastened buttons, and pushed constraining fabric away, freeing velvet flesh to thrust forth into those hands. He met Sam’s eyes – offering service with his love – and rose to his knees again to slip between Sam’s thighs, and bent gracefully, pressing a butterfly kiss to the tip of him, to the side, down, and upwards, finding him ripened, swollen beneath delicate skin –

“Ah! Frodo!”

Sam leaned back, braced himself on his elbows, and gave himself to Frodo’s tender suckling until seed must soon be spilled. But he laid his hand upon Frodo’s silken hair, and cried out, for love, a question.

“Frodo! Oh, wait – oh, love, you, too—?”

Frodo raised his head, and his lips glistened in the pale moonlight, and his eyes were dark with desire.

 

“Yes, oh, Sam, yes – Flesh to flesh, seed to seed.”

He straightened and took Sam’s hands, and lay back, pulling Sam over him into a kiss. His lips were swollen, musky with Sam’s scent, and his mouth was heated with desire, bitter from fear, sweet as life restored. Sam braced himself on one elbow, and reached to stroke him, feeling his hardness quiver, even through the heavy wool. Frodo’s hips lifted to his beloved’s caress, and he groaned, and could not be still as Sam struggled one-handed with buttons over taut fabric, rubbing, pressing –

 _“Ohh!”_ Frodo’s head dropped back to the ground as his back arched – and his quick intake of breath reminded Sam of his hurts, and of how very hard the mossy rocks must be beneath his wounded head, and back, and flanks. Sam wrapped one arm round Frodo’s waist, and slid his other around his shoulders, lifting him easily, shifting them so Frodo lay cushioned upon his breast, narrow hips already moving, cradled between thighs raised high. And Sam was so roused by Frodo’s urgency, his sweet weight, the heat of cloth-bound hardness upon his own bared flesh – that he scarcely felt the jutting sharp ground.

Frodo gasped, surprise, love, and thanks. He held tightly to Sam, pressing himself close as could be, and tucked his face into the hollow of Sam’s throat, smearing ash upon him as well. His chest and belly were snug against Sam’s coat – buttoned, still; was it cold? He should be cold in only shirtsleeves, but all he felt now was the heat in his loins and Sam’s beneath him, the warmth of Sam’s arms over his back, his hands, rubbing, down, down… massaging his cheeks, pressing fabric between their curves – and oh, yes, there! He needed _more_ , wanted more, wanted to be touching, thrusting, skin to skin –

He braced himself on one arm, panting as he reached impatiently to free himself, his fingers nimble upon the buttons that had thwarted Sam. He pushed the wool aside, tugged up his shirttail – and groaned as naked flesh sprang forth to Sam’s.

“ _Sam_ … nothing can ever take what is already given… to you, only to _you._ ”

Frodo leaned to kiss – oh, the tenderness of that kiss, his lips cooled by the crisp autumn air, his sigh warm upon Sam’s fingertips. Sam caressed his mouth, gathering wetness, then pulled Frodo’s shirt free from the loosened waistband, sliding beneath to smooth skin: the dip of his waist falling to soft, warm roundness, flexing beneath his hand, pressing hardness to him –

The sound of Frodo’s panting, his own harsh breaths – Sam groaned with desire, and reached to hold them together, and his other hand spread around a flaring curve, slipped to the valley between. He swirled slick fingertips to tightness, and pressed slowly, mindful of both the joy and the pain of their earlier joining.

Frodo became still, scarcely breathing, awaiting his touch.

“Frodo, love, oh, Frodo…” He pushed, so gently, deeply within, even as he thrust upward, flesh to flesh, receiving again what Frodo offered, had given for all time, to him alone.

Frodo writhed, senses veering between the pleasures of Sam’s body and his hands, around, and under, and in… He cried out, for life, for love, for Sam’s goodness, with need so great that there was not time to build a rhythm.

This, the touch of their naked flesh, together again, was enough, and more than enough –

Seed spilled, and Frodo soared, arching before the harvest moon, then fell, to collapse, grounded upon Sam’s breast, to lie safe in each other’s arms. Seed given, received, exchanged – all that was past for the renewing promise of their future. This, then, was Festival’s finest prize – seed given from love willing to serve as sacrifice for each other, for their Shire – affirming their lives, even in the face of death.

But no death, tonight.

Not this night, and _never_ for their love.

 

*****

The Festival Field lay serene and silver beneath the risen moon. Most adult hobbits had come and gone, their obligations to the Harvest fulfilled; the tweens had sought fulfilment elsewhere. A small knot of elders lingered at a long table, and the hushed murmur of their voices wafted across the Field with the drifting fragrance of smoke from glowing pipes. Sam raised his hand in greeting as he and Frodo passed; but Frodo was solemn, silent, removed into himself, intent now upon the completion of his task.

When they had emerged from the Woods earlier, they had given warning, telling of their encounter with the false reaper, and learned that he had been discovered – slouched, drunken, and muttering – and restrained from causing further harm.

But no one had realised that his offence was so wicked; there had been shock and great consternation for the Master, who, despite his reticence to reveal the details of the false encounter – and none at all of the real one – clearly had been bloodied and hurt. Frodo’s arm was bound and his head tended – well enough, till Sam could give far better care – and the worried elders had suggested, respectfully, that he should return to Bag End and remain there, certain in the knowledge that his Harvest duty had been fulfilled. And Sam’s frowning Gaffer pulled him aside, fearing harm unmentionable, seeking reassurance that Mr. Frodo really _was_ all right, and urging Sam, as the only one likely to have any influence with him, to encourage him to rest.

But Sam didn’t even try to convince him; he knew that Frodo would not agree that the terror in the Woods in any way exempted him from completing his service to Harvest and his beloved Shire. And so they had made their way up the Hill to Bag End, where Frodo quickly exchanged his torn coat for a cloak and then, with reverent care, retrieved the seeds he’d laid by the embers.

They returned to the Field, lying quiet and still before them.

Beside the Reaper’s tent, one elder sat watch over the dead seed. It lay heaped, blackened and dull in a carved bowl at his feet; another bowl on his lap held plump, shimmering grain of this year’s Reaping. The wreathed candle from the Prizing flickered on a tall pricket by his side, but his dark grey hood was pulled low around his face, and who he was, none might tell.

Sam waited as Frodo stepped forward, alone, into the ring of dancing light. He was silhouetted against the setting moon, its light glinting silver from his hair, his straight figure hidden beneath his draping cloak. His voice sounded solemn and steady as he spoke the ritual words.

“I have offered myself as Sacrifice this night. I come now to share in the Harvest, in hope for the next.”

Frodo held forth his closed hand, and turned it palm upwards. His fingers unfolded as gracefully as a flower to reveal the three parched seeds held close inside, all the way from hearth to here. One by one, he took them in his fingers, and dropped them into the bowl to mingle with the rest.

“Seeds of the past, for seed for the future.”

“So be it, Frodo Baggins. Take these as a promise.” A gnarled hand picked three seeds from the bowl upon his lap, and placed them upon Frodo’s upturned palm. “May you take joy in this harvest and all those to come.”

“And you, as well. Joy in the harvest, for all those to come.”

Frodo bowed graciously, and backed from the circle of light, into the shadows. He turned to face Sam, and his eyes were dark, and his jaw set with purpose.

“Sir.” Sam set his hand upon Frodo’s shoulder, tense beneath the heavy wool, and added softly, “Frodo-love. You’ve done what you came to do; all that, and more than what was asked.”

“Yes.” And Frodo took a deep breath. “Yes. With your help. This, all this, the Harvest, and Festival, and the Reaping… I must do my part for it, Sam. Thank you, for being with me.” His lips curved in a smile, and he added, raising one brow to emphasize his meaning, “In _every_ way.”

“Always, Frodo. Truly my pleasure! And now, to bed with you, and we’ll try sleeping, for a change, for what little night is left to us. Home?”

“Home.” Frodo agreed firmly, and he smiled as he laid one hand upon Sam’s chest, holding the seed secure in his other. “Although wherever I am with you, my love, I _am_ already there.”

_Finis_

 

 

 

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